Chapter Text
Dragonstone
Ceryse stares at the funeral pyre, still bewildered. Everything happened so suddenly.
Just yesterday, Aegon was as much of a nuisance as ever, telling his grandchildren wildly improbable stories, his appearance barely changed since Ceryse first met him. And today, he’s dead—his body consumed by the flames Balerion created.
From healthy to lifeless… it took less than half an hour. He just started coughing, then choking, clutching his chest, and… nothing.
“Father…” Aenys sighs from atop Quicksilver, his voice more resigned than sorrowful. “I—I know it was coming, but… so soon after mother…”
“The time comes for us all,” Visenya says sharply, Vhagar soaring above the pyre. “Rhaenys drank too much wine, and Aegon…” She glances down, her tone hardening. “At our age, every day could be our last. You must take the reins and rule.”
Yes, Ceryse reminds herself. Even if Aegon didn’t look it, he was old enough to have grandchildren of marriageable age. The Valyrians are magical, but their lifespans aren’t so different from humans.
And now Aenys is king. Well, he’s certainly more pleasant to be around than his father, so Ceryse can’t imagine much trouble ahead in his reign…
“Ceryse,” her husband calls at his usual spot— standing on her left shoulder, one hand gripping the hem of her clothes to steady himself. “The time has come. Walk closer to the pyre.”
Immediately she frowns. “What?” She turns to glare at him, squinting her eyes, and sees an unusual expression on Maegor’s face— his cheeks are flushed with excitement.
Maegor’s default expression is boredom, as if everything is beneath him; however, when given an assignment, he works solemnly, an attitude Ceryse knows he inherited from Visenya. Then, of course, there’s the “harmless” facade he wears when he wants something… and from time to time, he does show genuine happiness. But excitement? Not even once.
“Don’t you always want to get me off your shoulders?” he asks. Then Ceryse remembers. It’s been over a decade, but Maegor once told her he was waiting to claim a dragon.
Balerion, King Aegon’s mount.
Ceryse obeys, carefully approaches the black dragon watching the pyre. She extends her hand, and Maegor leaps down onto her palm, standing at nearly eye level with the beast.
“Balerion, come with me. Father is gone, and we have work to do,” Maegor says simply.
Balerion nods. Then he roars, launching a bright fireball at the pyre, sending a final farewell to his former master before turning to Maegor. Maegor jumps down, placing himself firmly on the dragon’s back.
He smiles.
“Thank you for your service all these years, wife,” he says, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “I’ll no longer need you for travel.”
Ceryse glances at her shoulder, feeling strangely empty. She’d once protested and fought against Maegor clinging to her like a parasite when they first married. But over the years, she had grown used to it. And now he’s gone…
“You’re still welcome here if you want,” she blurts out, quickly adding, “I mean, in case Balerion isn’t available and you need me…”
Before Maegor can respond, Balerion lets out a sound that suspiciously resembles a human chuckle. Damn you, dragon! Ceryse glares at the beast, her fear of the mighty Black Dread long gone after years of interaction.
“You will treat my wife with respect, Balerion,” Maegor warns, patting the dragon’s back. “My father might have indulged your bad behaviour, but I won’t allow it.”
Balerion flaps his wings quickly, whether in protest or acknowledgement, Ceryse can’t tell.
“He’ll learn,” Maegor promises, turning back to Ceryse, offering a smile, “I’m glad to hear you say that. Your shoulders were always comfortable, and I’m sure I’ll want to return from time to time. But now—”
“Your Grace! Urgent news!” A voice calls from behind.
Ceryse turns and sees Dragonstone’s maester rushing toward them, a letter in hand. “A raven from the Vale,” he says, panting. “King Ronnel Arryn has been imprisoned and usurped by his brother Jonos. Ronnel’s loyal lords are calling for help from the King of Westeros.”
“That’s…” Aenys blinks, confused. “How come? Was there any sign of tension between the Arryn brothers?”
“Jonos Arryn has always been a coward, outshone by his older brother even as a child,” Visenya declares, her lips pressed together in distaste. “I suppose he can’t stand being second best anymore.”
Maegor shifts uneasily on Balerion’s back. “We must send help. A request has been made, and as the King of Westeros, it’s Aenys’ duty to answer it.”
“But…” Aenys hesitates, looking down. “How can we help? We don’t have an army to match what the Vale can field. We can fly to the Eyrie, but surely Jonos must have archers prepared. This isn’t like our father’s surprise attack on Harren Hoare.”
Ceryse thinks over his words. Indeed, Dragonstone and King’s Landing have little in the way of an army; after all, the Targaryens never need one. From what Ceryse gathered, the Targaryens haven't interacted much outside the narrow sea until Aegon, and King’s Landing is a fresh city built on Stormlands’ and the Faith’s charity, lacking a substantial military force.
They could summon the banners of some lords loyal to the Targaryens, but how many would send more than a token force? Despite Aegon and Visenya’s efforts, most lords still view the Targaryens more like idols to be admired than rulers to be obeyed. Their respect for Aegon is more akin to worship than fealty.
Still, there’s no denying the Targaryens’ popularity, especially with the High Septon’s proclamation of them as the Maiden’s chosen, and their miracles throughout the Seven Kingdoms…
“The Faith,” Ceryse suddenly realises. “My uncle… The High Septon supports us, and he commands the Warrior’s Sons.”
“Perhaps the Storm Queen would help, too,” Aenys’ wife Alyssa adds. “Though she’s had less contact with us since King Orys’ death, she has always been our greatest supporter.”
Visenya shakes her head. “Argella will help, no doubt, as will the Faith. And with Ronnel married to a Stark, it’s likely the North will move against Jonos as well. But invading the Vale is not simple, even with an army. It requires strategy, logistics, and tactics—things we’ve never been trained in. There’s a reason we’ve relied on diplomacy, not warfare, to convince kings to submit.”
“Then…” Aenys begins slowly, “Maybe we can defeat Jonos… with diplomacy?”
His eyes meet Maegor’s, and he nods sharply. “The letter came from Ronnel’s loyalists, and Jonos hasn’t declared himself King of Mountain and Vale yet, has he?”
“No such proclamation has come from the Vale,” the maester replies.
“Then we can send a letter to the Vale. Jonos would be ready to strike if we invade with an army, but if it’s a mere diplomatic visit, we’ll have a chance to get close to him.” Maegor looks directly at Aenys. “I’ll handle it for you, if you wish, brother.”
Ceryse can’t help but frown as Quicksilver flies towards Balerion and Aenys embraces Maegor. Maegor is always eager for his brother’s approval, so it’s no surprise he’d offer to take charge… but she hasn’t heard an actual plan from him yet.
And knowing Maegor, his perception of things is often… skewed.
“Maegor, I know you’re reliable,” Aenys says happily, drawing Blackfyre from his side and handing it to Maegor. “You’ll put this sword to better use than I would. Take it and reclaim the Vale, and you’ll be my Hand, ruling by my side, just as Uncle Orys did with our father.”
“Aegon made Orys his Hand because Orys was literally… never mind,” Visenya sighs as her son and nephew glance at her, annoyed by her interruption.
“It’s my honour to accept this post. I shall serve you loyally and ably, until the last of my days,” Maegor gives his oath solemnly, taking the sword with both hands. Turning to the maester, he adds, “Maester, I need you to write a letter.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the maester answers.
“And Ceryse…” Maegor glances at her and says matter-of-factly, “You’re going to the Vale with me.”
“What?”
—
The Eyrie
“Announcing Prince Maegor Targaryen of Westeros, and his wife, Princess Ceryse Hightower!”
Ceryse steps into the High Hall of the Eyrie, just behind Maegor and Balerion. Their retainers trail behind, but their numbers pale in comparison to the knights stationed within the Eyrie. As the doors close behind them, Ceryse can't shake off a creeping sense of unease. We don’t have enough men…
The throne of the Eyrie stands empty, for the man who wears the crown is standing on the hall's blue carpet. He doesn’t kneel, but he offers his respect with a deep bow. “I, Ronnel Arryn, King of Mountain and Vale, welcome you to the Eyrie, my prince and princess.”
Instantly Ceryse’s eyebrows shoot up. Ronnel? He called himself Ronnel Arryn? If the man before them isn’t Jonos Arryn, Ceryse will bite off her tongue and eat it.
Sure, he looks the part of an Arryn king, dressed in blue and white, standing tall and proud in his ancestor’s hall. But the real Ronnel Arryn wouldn’t greet them so casually; he would be aware of the plea for help sent by his bannerman, and thank Maegor for coming to his rescue.
Yet, Maegor isn’t fazed by the pretender’s bold claim; he simply returns his bow politely. “It’s our pleasure to be here, Your Grace. I'm glad to find you in good health. I have heard some rumours concerning unrest in the Vale, I trust that it’s all unfounded?”
The false falcon king feigns innocence, widening his eyes. "Not at all, my lord. The Vale is as peaceful as can be. Even the mountain clans have been quiet these past months."
"Good," Maegor nods. "And your family? How are they faring?"
“Ah,” Arryn hesitates briefly, “My wife, Lyarra, has unfortunately fallen ill with a fever, preventing her from greeting our guests. But rest assured, she is under the care of our maester and will soon recover.”
“I could try to heal her with Balerion—”
“No, no, it's unnecessary!” Arryn says quickly, his hands and head shaking in rejection, “My maester has the situation well in hand, she is already getting better.”
Balerion huffs and Arryn glances at him with fear in his eyes. Gods, what is this mummer thinking? Ceryse can’t believe Jonos thinks he can trick them with his amateurish acting. Even Maegor seems to be suppressing a laugh, his lips twitching at the corners. Still, he continues to question Jonos.
“And your brother?”
“Jonos is currently out travelling.”
“Well,” Maegor smiles warmly, “as long as the most important man in the Vale is present, my mission is accomplished. From what I have heard, you’re a far more accomplished man than your brother anyway.”
Arryn’s face twitches. “That's not true! I— Jonos is an accomplished knight.”
How is he falling for this stupid bait? Ceryse thinks, rolling her eyes. Be done with this mummer’s farce already!
"On the contrary, Your Grace, you are far more impressive than your brother," Maegor insists, “You’re handsome, imposing, born to be king. My mother has told me her visit to the Eyrie and she said Jonos Arryn was a witless coward who could only hide behind your back—”
"That's a lie!" Jonos explodes, his voice reverberating through the marble walls of the High Hall. His face reddens with anger. “I’m no witless coward! I don’t hide behind my brother’s back! You all look down on me, but I’ll be a better king than Ronnel ever was!”
A tense silence fills the hall.
Then Maegor moves.
“Balerion!” Maegor shouts as Jonos instinctively ducks, anticipating dragonfire. Yet Balerion doesn’t breathe fire; he lunges for Jonos' neck instead, while Maegor jumps and climbs onto Jonos’ head, one hand pulling his sandy-blond hair and the other pointing Blackfyre at his blue eyes. Jonos freezes, his pupils narrow at the tip of Blackfyre.
Several of Jonos' men advance towards Ceryse, but she retreats, positioning herself behind the knights accompanying Maegor. "Nobody moves," Maegor orders calmly, his voice carrying authority. Balerion's jaws clamp down on Jonos' neck, and when Jonos echoes Maegor's command, his voice trembling, Ceryse knows that Maegor has won.
…Somehow. Only due to ridiculous circumstances. And most importantly enemy stupidity.
Is today Maegor’s lucky day?
“Now, Lord Jonos, answer me a question. This time with the truth.” Maegor asks coldly, “Where are King Ronnel and his wife? Are they in the sky cells?”
"They're not there," Jonos replies, his voice shaking. "I had them moved, fearing you might hear them. If you... if you can guarantee my safety, I'll reveal their location."
“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate, my lord,” Maegor responds darkly, “Your life is in Balerion’s… mouth. Disobey, and he'll snap your neck in an instant.”
“But if you kill me, you’ll never find my brother.” Jonos is shivering, but he seems to stand by his words, his lips tight even when Maegor and Balerion glare at him. As the standoff continues, Ceryse feels like she should intervene.
“Maegor, perhaps Lord Jonos can take the black?”
Maegor stares at her. She expected him to be mad at her for interrupting, but his gaze isn’t one of anger; rather, it’s searching, waiting for an… answer?
Wait. Does Maegor not know about the Night’s Watch?
Ceryse’s face twists as she realises that for all the things she had taught Maegor in the last decade, the Night’s Watch isn’t one of them. Maegor’s knowledge of Westerosi customs has always been rather lacking… he had her drilling him on knowledge about the Vale for weeks before coming here.
Yet she would never have thought that he didn’t know about the Night’s Watch!
“Lord Jonos, surely you would agree that taking the black will be preferable to death,” Ceryse quickly adds, more to Maegor’s benefit than Jonos, “You will renounce all your claims and titles to serve as a man of the Watch, defending the realms from the wildlings beyond the Wall, and with time you might even rise to the position of Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”
“…I know what taking the black means,” Jonos glances at her with confusion, “And… Yes, I suppose joining the Night’s Watch is the best I could get. I accept.”
“Then so be it,” Maegor says immediately, relief in his eyes, “Now, release your brother and his wife, and bring them here as promised.”
“Bring them out,” Jonos orders, and his men obey. Running out of the hall, they bring back… a short man dressed in rags, his appearance dishevelled.
Jonos is apparently as confused as Ceryse is. “What? Why haven't you brought my brother and his wife?”
"Milord, you ordered us to move them out," the short man explains, his voice trembling. "So, I pushed them out to the skies..."
“They… they died?” Jonos whispers, his face pales, “That’s… that’s not what I intended! I didn’t mean to kill them! I’m no kinslayer!”
“Regardless, they’re dead,” Maegor sneers, “Dead because of you. The man who did the deed will lose his head, but you must face punishment as well, Lord Jonos.”
“You— I— If you kill me, you’ll be breaking the guest right!” Jonos protests, his fear palpable, “You ate my bread and salt before entering this hall!”
Maegor pauses for a second as Balerion looks at him, waiting for permission to bite.
“Ceryse, explain to Lord Jonos why he is mistaken,” Maegor says at last, looking at Ceryse expectantly.
You little— Ceryse glares at Maegor, irritated at being put on the spot. She bet he wasn’t educated on the guest right either. Gods, what does he actually know?
I’ll force him to attend extensive lessons with the maester later, Ceryse vows in her head as she scrambles to figure out a solution… well, more of a loophole.
“Lord Jonos,” she starts calmly, “it’s true, we did receive bread and salt from the King of Mountain and Vale upon our arrival. However, you aren’t the king, are you?”
“I…” Jonos is at a loss for words as he realises his defeat.
“You’re merely a pretender to your brother’s throne, not the true master of the Eyrie. Thus, we’re under no obligation to grant you protection,” Ceryse finishes. Jonos stares at her with horror, while Maegor smiles slightly. This is done now— as Ceryse thinks that, another thought rises in her head.
I’m condemning a man to death by my words.
She, Ceryse Hightower, a Septa and servant of the ever merciful Seven.
Mother above, how could I live with myself if I do that?
“BUT,” Ceryse blurts out quickly before Balerion bites down, “My husband is a merciful man. He once offered you the opportunity to take the black, and he will uphold that offer as long as you leave the Eyrie by tomorrow. Am I right, husband?”
Maegor stares at her. She stares back. Very soon, her eyes start to hurt, but she refuses to blink. She can see that Maegor is fuming, but just this once he has to listen to her!
As tears well up in her eyes, Maegor finally relents. “Fair is fair. I AM a merciful man. You will depart for the Night's Watch tomorrow, Jonos Arryn.”
“Thank you for your mercy, my prince and princess!” Jonos immediately says. After Maegor jumps down from his head and Balerion reluctantly releases him, Maegor’s knight takes him into custody. Ceryse exhales, a sense of relief washing over her.
Maegor flies to her side on Balerion. “You owe me, wife,” he hisses, his face contorted in a menacing scowl.
“I— I’m not afraid of you,” Ceryse stammers, her words ineffective. After over a decade of marriage, she has grown accustomed to Maegor’s terrifying face, but combined with Balerion's growls, the effect is unnerving. The dragon's eyes glow red, saliva dripping from his open mouth, revealing sharp teeth. Balerion has never looked at her with such hunger before.
“Sure you aren’t,” Maegor sneers. “Since you have been helpful today, I’ll forgive you for speaking out of turn. Balerion, Ceryse isn’t your meal, so behave yourself.” The dragon grunts and closes his mouth on Maegor’s order. Returning his focus to Ceryse, Maegor warns, “But remember, wife: if a similar situation arises again, I won’t be so merciful towards our enemies.”
“I don’t expect you to,” Ceryse replies coldly, trying to shake off her fear, “but I must do what I can as a Septa of the Faith.”
“So you do,” Maegor acknowledges, his gaze intense. “I'll keep that in mind.” He glares at her once more before shifting his attention. “With Ronnel dead and Jonos removed from inheritance, we need a new king of Mountain and Vale. The closest Arryn in line would be…”
“Hubert Arryn, the brothers’ cousin,” Ceryse reminds him, “We have studied the Arryn family tree just before in preparation.”
“That we did. And this is why I insisted you come with me, to fill in the gaps in my knowledge.”
"I understand that now," Ceryse mutters, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Reflecting on the events that just transpired, she adds, “We were fortunate that Jonos is a fool fearing for his own life. If he had been even slightly competent, this encounter could have ended very differently.”
Maegor gives her a curious look. "No, it would have ended the same way. A kinslaying usurper like Jonos Arryn could never defeat me." Balerion roars, and Maegor quickly adds, "And Balerion, of course."
“Then what’s your plan if he didn’t stupidly pretend to be Ronnel Arryn?”
“Rush him with Balerion.”
"But that would have put us all in grave danger!" Ceryse protests. "If he had been prepared, he could have killed us all!"
"Have faith in my abilities, Ceryse," Maegor says dismissively, waving his hand. "In close combat, Balerion and I are invincible. You've witnessed our training sessions; you should know this."
Ceryse grits her teeth, a realisation dawning on her. I’ll have to accompany him wherever he goes, otherwise he’ll get into trouble sooner or later.
Maegor's lack of common sense, which might have gone unnoticed on Dragonstone, becomes glaringly apparent when he ventures out into the world. If Ceryse isn’t around to cover for him… she doesn’t want to imagine the outcome.
And Aenys appointed him Hand of the King!